


Unless you are good at guessing

by Philipa_Moss



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 00:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2831123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philipa_Moss/pseuds/Philipa_Moss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Japp raised one eyebrow and flicked the brim of his hat in satisfaction. “Do I know more about our friend Poirot than good old Captain Hastings?”</p><p>I doubted this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unless you are good at guessing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [serenissima (killalla)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/killalla/gifts).



> “Unless you are good at guessing, it is not much use being a detective.”  
> ― Agatha Christie

“ _Mon ami_ ,” said Poirot. He looked dumbstruck, which was an unusual look on him. He was staring over my shoulder and holding his menu tightly.

 

I turned to look. It was dashed awkward, as we were seated at an angle and my left side was entirely masked by a potted palm. Just as soon as I’d sufficiently turned, Poirot let out one of his little exasperated exhales, like an angry cat’s sneeze.

 

“ _Mais, non_ , if you are going to be so obvious you must not look at all!”

 

But I was one step ahead of him. To mask my staring, I leaned from my chair to adjust my shoelace. It would’ve worked, too, if a waiter hadn’t appeared out of nowhere and tripped headlong over me, dousing us both in ice water.

 

The eyes of the restaurant were on us. “I say!” I said. I apologized, and helped the waiter to his feet.

 

Dried off and (discretely) paid off, I turned back to Poirot to find him staring at me impenetrably. He was still gripping his menu.

 

“What?”

 

“Hastings,” Poirot began slowly, “never in my life have I witnessed such a cataclysm.”

 

“Not even during the war?” I asked.

 

Poirot opened his mouth to respond, but we were interrupted.

 

A man stood over us. He’d walked straight up to the table and now he was leaning on it as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. He wasn’t old (he had less grey in his hair than I did, frankly, and it was confined to his temples), so it must have been that he’d had a shock and was in need of support. “Hercule!” he said. He was staring at Poirot as if he’d never seen him before. No. He was staring at Poirot as if he knew him incredibly well and had thought he’d never see him again.

 

Poirot dropped the menu onto the table and stood. It landed on his plate, off-center, but he didn’t notice. I was floored.

 

“John,” said Poirot. Somewhat belatedly, he held out a hand and the man—John—shook it weakly.

 

“My God,” said John. Then, “Yes.” He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “Yes, splendid. Forgive me. This is a bit of a shock.”

 

“Of course,” said Poirot. For the first time he glanced in my direction. I’d rather gotten the idea he’d forgotten about me.

 

“Hello,” I said, standing. “I’m Arthur Hastings.”

 

The man had forgotten about me too. He collected himself. “Apologies. How rude of me. John Prescott.”

 

“Arthur Hastings,” I said again.

 

“Yes, Hastings, he has been put in the picture,” said Poirot.

 

“What are you doing here?” John Prescott asked Poirot. I got the idea that he wasn’t talking about the restaurant.

 

“But I live here,” said Poirot.

 

To call Prescott gobsmacked would be rather underselling the point. He did everything short of rock back on his heels. “But I haven’t seen you here!” he exclaimed. “Since when?”

 

Poirot was speaking gently now. “Since shortly after the war.” He looked around. “Would you care to have a seat?”

 

“No, no, I…yes, you know I think I would.” Prescott fell heavily into the seat beside me. He was behaving very much as my sturdy Aunt Edith did when she was recently bereaved. “You never thought to tell me?”

 

It was then that I began to feel that I had rather less than the short end of the stick. Poirot and Prescott’s conversation had been dipped in some type of urgency. I was out of place there.

 

Poirot appeared to feel the same. “We must not bore the good Captain Hastings,” he began.

 

Prescott let out a wordless exclamation. He clapped me on the arm. “My dear fellow, forgive me, I am unspeakably rude today.”

 

“Not at all,” I said. “How long have you known each other?”

 

Poirot and Prescott exchanged a glance.

 

“We met in ’04,” said Prescott. “The _Times_ sent me to Brussels to cover the Abercrombie forgery case.”

 

“Oh you’re a journalist?” I asked. I had only very rarely encountered gentleman journalists, and I was very curious to learn what had brought Prescott to the trade.

 

Poirot, however, interrupted my line of inquiry. “You may recall, Hastings, that it was at this time too that I made the acquaintance of the estimable Chief Inspector Japp.”

 

“Ah,” I said. “I had forgotten. Quite a famous case, then, was it?”

 

“Months we were there,” said Prescott. “Japp came and went, but I stayed. I had a hunch that our forger was just laying low, biding his time with beer and _moules-frites_.”

 

“At first I wondered what this English journalist found to entrance him so in Belgium,” said Poirot, “but then I ceased to wonder.”

 

Incredibly, Prescott colored all up and down his neck.

 

“The food,” Poirot said to me. Prescott expelled a breath. “ _Naturellement_ , the food.”

 

“Yes,” said Prescott. “There was so much in Belgium I had never encountered before.”

 

“I remember the feeling!” I put in. “Never had chocolate like that before.”

 

Prescott considered this for a long while. Then he said, faintly, “Quite.”

 

“Hastings,” Poirot said. “Were you not intending to take tea at your club?”

 

What was Poirot on about? We’d just had tea.

 

“Yes,” Poirot continued. “I remember you told me when we were arriving of the appointment at your club?”

 

Ah. The penny dropped. Poirot didn’t want to embarrass Prescott by beating a hasty retreat, and so he was giving me an out. Doubtless ten minutes would pass and he, too, would make his excuses.

 

“Right,” I said. “Absolutely. Slipped my mind.” I got to my feet. Poirot and Prescott rose as well. I made my goodbyes and left the restaurant without overturning any more waiters.

 

Back at Poirot’s flat, I waited for hours, but he didn’t turn up. I’d thought we were going to do a spot of work on the Hampstead arson case, but apparently I’d got my signals wrong. I read the evening paper, listened to the wireless, and was preparing to leave when Japp came knocking on the door.

 

I must admit, I never quite know what to do with the Chief Inspector when Poirot is absent. I’ve gone what I can, but the fellow appears to carry a massive chip on his shoulder where I am concerned. It’s not my fault that I have been instrumental in solving so many of Poirot’s cases.

 

“Hastings,” said Japp shortly. He surveyed the flat. “Poirot about?”

 

“No as a matter of fact,” I said. “He’s having dinner with a friend.” This was pure guesswork on my part, but it was looking more and more as if Poirot had found it impossible to extricate himself from Prescott’s conversational snare.

 

“I see,” said Japp. “Well, there’s not much to it. We caught the Hampstead arsonist red-handed this evening. His mum turned him in. Said she was tired of having all her matches nicked. Let Poirot know, would you? Much obliged, and all, but would have our man.”

 

“I’ll be sure to let him know,” I said.

 

As Japp put on his coat at the door, he said, “Who’s this friend, then? Cornered by his dentist again, was he?” There was a smirk hiding somewhere under that mustache.

 

“No,” I said. “A much older friend. A friend of longer duration, that is. John Prescott. I believe you know him.”

 

Japp was, at first, confused, then I watched recognition dawn. That was followed just as quickly by a completely different expression, one that was trying very hard to be something else and was only keeping itself in check through the most valiant of efforts.

 

I notice these things.

 

“Is that so?” said Japp. He had misbuttoned his coat and I told him so. He swore mildly and got to buttoning again.

 

“Yes,” I said. “Although I must admit I expected Poirot ages ago. I’d’ve thought he’d’ve made his excuses and left.”

 

“Did you now,” said Japp. It was not a question. He raised one eyebrow and flicked the brim of his hat in satisfaction. “Do I know more about our friend Poirot than good old Captain Hastings?”

 

I doubted this, but was polite enough to merely spread my hands.

 

“Hmm,” said Japp. “Hmm, hmm, hmm.” And he was gone.

 

At some stage I fell asleep on the sofa. After what Japp said, I sat down to puzzle things out, and one thing led to another and the next thing I knew Poirot was tapping my chest, gently, with the handle of his cane. “Hastings,” he whispered. “You have, perhaps, forgotten your way home?”

 

I struggled to sit up. It was not yet morning, but the light outside the window was a shade lighter blue than black. “I say,” I said. “Where’ve you been?” Poirot looked fresh as a daisy, but his suit was a touch rumpled. I’d never known him to tie one on, but perhaps if he ever did, this would be the outcome.

 

“With John I had much to discuss,” said Poirot. “He did not understand why I had not let him know of my presence in London sooner. When in fact I thought him dead.”

 

“ _Dead_?” I said.

 

“Why yes,” said Poirot. “He said he would write, he did not, and then the war…” He shook his head. “It was beneath Poirot. It was the supposition only. If I had but applied the little grey cells. But, _hélas_ , the little grey cells in matters of the heart are often quite nearly useless.”

 

Matters of the heart? Poirot’s English was a victim of the hour, I decided, and stood to go. I would get no more sense from him tonight, and the sofa would likely ruin my back for my pains.

 

“In any event,” Poirot went on, as if I had made no move, “he had not heard of me. _Pardon_ , he had not heard of my work in London. He, too, thought that I was no more.”

 

“Good Lord,” I said. “You’re pretty cool customers, I must say. Sitting there chatting with me when you each thought the other had been dead all this time!”

 

Poirot smiled at me. “Oh, Hastings. Your mind, it is of the simplicity _parfait_.”

 

I wasn’t entirely sure this was a compliment, but it was far too late—far too early—to quibble. “Until tomorrow, Poirot. Until later today, that is.”

 

“Until then, _mon ami_ ,” said Poirot, as he ushered me out. “Once again, I have shared with you the best of days.”

 

It was then, as the door closed between us, that I noticed something I’d missed. Poirot was _radiant_. Like a new mother. Like a groom on his wedding day. I knew that the radiance wasn’t on my account, and I knew it wasn’t the case he hadn’t solved (and I vowed to remember to tell him Japp’s news in the morning). And if it wasn’t on my account, and if it wasn’t work, then it had to be this long-lost friend, and the hours they’d spent together.

 

And I began to wonder what else I might have missed.


End file.
